The Break - Part V: Aftermath — All Feelings, No Ceilings.

While I was on the mend back home in New Jersey, I had more than my fair share of ridiculous moments. Let’s take a moment to reminisce about a few of them...

There was the night I slept with my bedroom window wide open during a snowstorm that dumped 16 inches of snow on northern New Jersey, because I was convinced my medication was giving me the sweats. Much to my mother’s chagrin, my bedroom floor had a dusting of snow when I woke up in the morning, and the entire house was 40 degrees.

There was every day that I masterfully negotiated my positioning in the shower. I sat on a small bench with my casted leg hanging out from the curtain to prevent it from getting soaked. I engaged in many battles with the portable shower head, and while my leg remained impeccably dry, very few other items in the bathroom did.

There were the afternoons that I cursed myself for, while using crutches, being unable to simultaneously carry all of the ingredients required to make a sandwich, meaning I would have to make a second trip across the kitchen to the refrigerator to get the rest. (FYI, a serious pet peeve of mine has always been making two trips. No matter how much stuff there is to carry, I take whatever measures necessary to make it in one trip.)

Sometimes (a lot of times), things were lonely. I missed my friends. I missed the freedom and the constant activity of New York City. Even though I had only been away from it for about a month, I began to miss my life and I became legitimately worried that things might not ever go back to the way they were. (Is that overly dramatic? Absolutely. Is it something that nevertheless crept into my mind after spending four weeks lying around in my bedroom? ...Yes.)

I have always considered myself to be somewhat of an overthinker and an overanalyzer. But one evening after dinner—one of my last nights at home before I returned to New York—I laid down and my racing thoughts took over. But this wasn’t the same overthinking or overanalyzing I’d made a habit of doing over the years. It was clear—an almost out-of-body type of reflection. One by one, I re-visited the cast of characters since that night in Bryant Park: the date—who stuck around with me for FIVE HOURS in the emergency room; the resident—who refused to let me leave the emergency room until my leg was sufficiently primed for surgery; the medical supplies salesman—who took the initiative to contact a well-known surgeon; the surgeon—who called us back immediately and managed to fit me into his already insane schedule; the nurses—who stayed up all night and took care of me (and countless others); the construction worker—who embodied the idea of sacrifice and selflessness; the hall attendant—who invigorated me with his boundless energy. When I ultimately did resume the life I’d grown accustomed to in New York, I decided that I wouldn’t allow myself to forget the folks who had such a profound impact on the existence I came to know back home.

Which brings me to one last observation.

Though I did feverishly look forward to getting back to New York, I was a great version of myself while I was home in New Jersey. You see, one major by-product of being temporarily handicapped was that I suddenly had absolutely nothing to do. In fact, I hadn’t recalled having that much spare time since summer vacations as a kid at our family shorehouse, when my daily agenda consisted of waking up, putting on a swimsuit and going to the beach. Cleansed of all the rigors of daily life as a young adult in New York City, I suddenly had all of the time in the world to read. Reading of all sorts, too...in addition to books and news, I absorbed information from medical websites and learned all sorts of crazy stuff. I took an interest in politics for the first time in my life, and I developed a sense of pride in realizing what was important to me. I played music every day, and melodies materialized under my fingertips with ease. I had time to dedicate to discovering new musical artists. I spent time with relatives who I had barely seen since moving to New York three years earlier, and I re-connected with old friends I hadn’t spoken with for a lot longer than that. During my six weeks at home I barely did anything. And yet, I did it all.

When I encountered a particularly humbling moment, I was told that I’d look back on my injury and recovery as a valuable life experience. And two years later, I certainly do believe that. But to me, it was also much more.

It was a time to rest. It was an opportunity to reflect.

It was a break.

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